First Impressions Last
by Romanoma
Summary: Etiquette is a crucial element of Italian dinners, but it’s not the most important thing in the world. SpainxRomano


A cheer-up charm for starshards =)

**First Impressions Last.**

The Italian summer was an endless petticoat of polished emerald, portside terraces quilted by leaves and blue ivy-flowers, like the stones had risen from the ground by the will of the earth and crafted a house to suit. Romano's house sat neatly nestled between a field of insipid olive vines and ripe, rosy peaches like a bobbing sea of furry bottoms. A neat tyre-worn trail tumbled all the way to the achingly twee front door of a cottage built with every ounce of love and care, enormous, destined to be filled to brimming with the echo of children's laughter.

Romano twiddled his thumbs at the kitchen table, glancing obsessively at the clock ticking its mocking tock, one, two, three, four, five, six. Evening was stretching a soothing blue shadow over quietening fields and dusty pathways, the old creak of carriage wheels haunting the long roads winding from town to town. Dinner, angry pumpkin pasta, was in its final stage of cooking, which was why Romano's stomach was turning over with such enthusiasm. Spain would be here any minute now. Spain would be here _any minute now_.

Romano drummed his fingers on the table, knowing if he didn't do something with his hand, he would throttle the nearest living thing. "I'm not nervous Spain is coming to dinner. I'm not," he said to himself, glaring at the china white salt and pepper pots, curious, mutated hugging blobs that seemed to be a terribly popular novelty in England. He didn't like them because they were tacky, but they were a gift from his little brother and far be it for him to throw away a gift from his little brother...

He rose from his seat, patting his stomach lightly while he drizzled oil over delicious slices of flame-orange pumpkin and springy pasta. Next came flakes of red pepper sprinkled over the top and then to marinate. Easy.

He glanced at the clock again. Five minutes to go. He felt sick, stripping off his protective apron to fold and drape it over the oven door handle then he smoothed down his pristine white shirt, crisp from washing, no creases, first two buttons undone, collar folded down with mathematical precision. His trousers were pressed, a firm crease down the centre of each leg leading to shined black shoes, Italian leather of course. His appearance was flawless, as God intended.

"Romaaanooo, I'm here!"

Romano dropped the knife he was using to gather stray flakes, watching in horror as it bounced to the floor point down, juddering to a spear-like halt in the red tiled kitchen floor. With a quiet 'fuckit' under his breath and his heart pounding, he bent down to retrieve it. His cheeks were red. "You're early. Just come in already," he grumbled, eyes tracing a swift path from pasta to Spain loitering in the doorway awaiting his invite inside. "S'nearly done. Please put the wine on the table."

"Wine?"

Romano looked over, seeing Spain was painfully empty-handed. "You didn't bring any wine? You...you didn't bring a gift either?"

Spain stared at his empty hands as if he had been holding something that had suddenly disappeared before his eyes. "I was meant to bring a gift?" he asked quietly, licking his lips at the delicious scent and sight of dinner, a combination of fragrances that warmed his belly. He peered closer, only a little afraid to come much nearer. Romano's face was awfully red. "You didn't tell me I was meant to bring a gift, idiot... You should really tell me these things."

Romano's eye twitched. But never mind, because Spain didn't know any better. Still. Even though he had told Spain on _countless_ occasions that it was traditional to bring a gift to the home of an Italian, or a nice, rich, tasty bottle of wine to have with dinner. A full bodied Rioja would have been lovely, texture smooth and warm, rolling hints of nutmeg and cinnamon and ripe, red cherries. Romano's mouth watered at the thought.

Wearily sighing, he placed the knife down and strode up to Spain with the sort of smile that made small children cry. "Welcome to my home, Spain," he said, voice tight. He leaned forward expectantly, eyes closed. When nothing happened, he cracked open an eye and said, "Well?!"

"Well what?" Spain said, cautiously casting a look over his shoulder. Nothing untoward was there. He faced Romano again, smile crooked. "Is there something on my face?"

Romano's lips pursed. "Are you forgetting something?" Fucking idiot, he thought, kiss on each cheek, kiss on each cheek. He chanted it in his mind as though his words would float on a telepathic wavelength towards his idiotic boss who was staring at him as though he had never seen him before.

"Oh!" Spain cried suddenly, leaning in. Romano thought for a moment that he had learnt how to read minds until Spain dragged him into a tight hug, offering a mannish pat on the shoulder. When he let go to investigate the dish bubbling excitedly on the stove, Romano burnt an imaginary hole in the floor with the intensity of his glare, cheeks like engorged, swollen tomatoes. Only when he had taken three deep, slow breaths did he turn, noticing Spain's unusual attire. Baggy blue denim shorts and a white t-shirt with some unintelligible scrawl on it. And sandals. _Sandals_.

"Wha..._what are you wearing, Spain_?!" Romano hissed, tugging disapprovingly at Spain's distasteful t-shirt, nose wrinkled as though it was diseased. Spain blinked, looking down at his clothes in a way that said he had really just thrown on the first thing he saw.

"What's wrong with them? I think they're fine."

"'What's wrong with them'?!" Romano repeated, waving his hand animatedly. He slapped a hand to his forehead. "How can you even ask me that?! Is this a joke?! They're so unfashionable!"

"They are?" Spain said distantly, staring upside down at his shirt. "Oh. I don't really know much about fashion."

"But...but you're _Spanish_! How can you not have a fashion sense, you fucking idiot?! Have you not heard ofPaco Rabanne? Cristobal Balanciaga? Amaya Arzuaga?! They're some of the greatest fashion designers in Europe! The world! Spanish men don't dress like...like... British tourists!"

Spain seemed to get a sense of impending doom like there was a heat-seeking missile locked on his position. He obviously felt embarrassed for his fashion faux pas, hanging his head. "Sorry," he mumbled, knotting his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt. "I'll try harder next time."

Feeling a twinge of guilt for being so harsh, Romano dismissively waved his hand. "Forget it, idiot, its fine. Just...dress more formally next time."

Within ten minutes, Romano had served up dinner and opened (his own) bottle of wine, poured them each a glass and finally sat down. Spain followed suit with a wide, eager smile, waiting patiently for his companion to pick up his fork before he did the same. He certainly didn't want to cause anymore offence, watching carefully to see what Romano did as he ate, how he held his cutlery, how many times he chewed before he swallowed, how often he paused to sip from his glass of wine until, finally noticing, Romano snapped, "what?! What the fuck are you staring at? And get your wrists off the table!"

Spain jerked his hands back. "S-sorry!" he stammered, confused. "Shouldn't I have my wrists on the table?"

"No!" Romano yelled. "Stupid bastard... How long have we known each other and you still don't know these things? Sometimes I wonder if you know _anything_ about me!"

Dinner was eaten in silence after that, Spain guiltily keeping his eyes on his pasta and his wrists off the edge of the table. He didn't dare put down his fork to drink any wine even though Romano seemed to be glugging it like it was going out of fashion. Eventually growing nervous of the silence, he said ever so quietly, "So...so why is it _angry _pasta? Do you shout at it before you cook it?"

Spain's inane little grin should have pissed him off, but Romano found himself smiling lightly, bordering on amused. It was a legitimate question, at least. "It's called 'angry pasta' because of the red pepper flakes," he answered matter-of-factly. "Simple as that, really. Do you like it?"

"It's delicious!" Spain said, breaking into a smile that made him forget all about his social discrepancies for the time being. "You're such a good cook, Romano! Thank you."

Romano rolled his eyes, flushing. "Idiot..."

Romano had curled up in his favourite chair, nail of his thumb between his lips while he slumbered peacefully with a belly full of wine. Spain, after offering to tidy up in return for the lovely dinner Romano had cooked with "love and attention" – Romano had scoffed at that – smiled from the doorway of the living room. "So cute," he murmured, creeping in to kneel in front of him, drawing a patchwork blanket up to his waist. Romano subconsciously grasped it, shuffling further down and settling again. "I'm sorry I didn't bring you a gift or any wine and I'm sorry I have bad fashion sense and didn't understand your table etiquette. I'll try my best next time, I promise."

Mumbling something in his sleep, Romano reached out to pat Spain's head lightly, soft, dark hair sifting through his fingers. Spain's heart lifted - "It's ok, little brother..." – then sank again with the hand falling to Romano's side. Feeling just that little colder without it, Spain lifted it to his lips, raining kisses over soft, brown knuckles.

"I thought about bringing you a present," he whispered, flopping against the chair, playing with thin digits and comparing them to his own hands. His fingers weren't quite as long, but his nails were perfectly trimmed and manicured. "But I thought I might get something that made you angry. And I don't know anything about wine and didn't want to offend you by bringing the wrong kind. I know I'm an idiot. You're an idiot, too though! You should have told me or something. I'm not a mind reader."

Romano huffed as though he'd heard, fingers tightening around those holding his hand. Spain smiled up at him, enjoying the peace and quiet. Romano looked so tranquil in his sleep. If only he looked more like that when he was awake, then he would be as adorable as his brother was.

His strange curl of hair was bobbing lazily. Spain rose to close the window and then settled at the foot of the chair again, smiling up at his little protégé. His lips parted with the rise and fall of his chest, hair vibrating in the stream of breath. When Spain reached up to give it a tentative little flick, Romano grumbled, swatting him away. "Why don't you like me more?" Spain asked quietly, propping his head up on Romano's knee. "I try my best to take care of you. I always have."

Obviously, no answer. The temperature dropped with the onset of night, Spain gathering the blanket around Romano's shoulders, aware of how doting he was being. It didn't matter though. No one could see him anyway. Besides it was getting chilly and Romano would complain if he woke up the next day with a cold and would no doubt blame Spain for it and why did he have to look so utterly kissable dozing with rosy cheeks and blush-pink lips, gripping the blanket like a sweet little boy...

Spain couldn't help himself. He leaned up, balancing his weight on the chair, and lightly pressed his lips against Romano's. No protest. No fist to the stomach. No knee to the groin. Spain smiled slowly, leaning in for seconds, cooing in surprise when warm, moist lips returned the affection. Spain's fingers slid up the quivering expanse of his neck, delighting in the speeding pulse skittering beneath the skin like a butterfly trapped under a glass. "_So_ cute sometimes," Spain whispered, nuzzling his nose. "I should kiss you in your sleep more...often...oh. You're awake."

Romano looked an interesting combination of terrified and confused. "What...what are you doing, Spain?" he asked.

Spain forced a smile and flopped at his feet, innocently twiddling his thumbs. "Nothing!" he sang as though the last minute hadn't even happened. "Was just putting the blanket around you because it's gone cold."

"You were kissing me."

"Was not."

"Yes you were!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Romano narrowed his eyes, tips of his fingers brushing his lips. He hadn't imagined that, had he? No, Spain definitely kissed him. He could still taste him, a zing of tomato and peppers, and then the warmth from his hand sending tingles up his spine. His curled hair wiggled in delight, Romano casting a glare downwards. "What did you go and kiss me for, you stupid bastard," he growled, drawing his knees up to his chest. "You can't just go round kissing people in their sleep!"

Spain seemed genuinely ashamed, awkwardly examining imaginary dirt under his nails. "Was just a kiss," he said. "Sorry." Romano opened his mouth again to snap that "sorry wasn't good enough" then sighed and decided not to bother. Spain was right. It was only a kiss and... "I know you don't really like me all that much, Romano, but I really appreciate you cooking dinner. Sorry if I've ruined your even--ow!"

Romano's thump to his boss's head drew a whimper from him. "What do you mean 'don't really like' you? Are you stupid. Why do you think I cooked for you? You're such a stupid..." He paused, irritably rubbing his nose. "Well, don't just sit there."

Spain looked up at him, frowning gently and Romano rolled his eyes, chewing the inside of his lip moodily. "It's not good manners to kiss someone and then not do anything about the consequences, Spain," he said pointedly, tapping his foot. Spain stared, wondering if Romano was saying what he thought he was saying .

"You mean...?" he began, eyes lighting up with gratuitous glee. Romano huffed, leaning over to grab Spain by the collar.

"_Yes_. That's exactly what I mean," he snarled, tightening his grip. "Now, please get on with it."

~Fin~


End file.
